Arc 3: Chapter 3: The Backroad Inn
Urn is a land of secrets. One of the better kept ones is the Backroad Inn.
I found it, as to its name, along an ill used woodland road. If not for its surroundings, it would have looked completely innocuous — a traveler’s inn of a typical design, with three stories and some balconies on the higher level, its steepled roofs half hidden among the woodland boughs. Cheerful lights glowed dimly through foggy windows, and a lantern had been lit above the door to welcome weary travelers in through rain or fog.
It looked too inviting, set amid mist-shrouded woods turned gray in winter. The overcast sky, growing dark with the aging day, loomed above a forest fast being consumed by a threatening darkness. The bare trees, skeletal and creaking, almost seemed to reach out for me, compelling me to seek shelter.
A well laid honey trap, if ever I saw one. Even still, I approached the front door. Wrapped in my bloodred cloak, I wore my armor beneath and was alone. I’d commanded Emma to stay at the Fane, despite her protests. She’d had enough temptations in her life, and I didn’t want to draw the attention of certain beings on her if I could avoid it.
Walking through the front door, I was met by the strangely mixed signals of inviting warmth and a chilly quieting of conversation. I took a moment to inspect the common room.
A large common room greeted me, taking up two of the establishment’s three floors, with a U shaped bar dominating the far end from the entrance and a central fire pit. The high ceiling allowed room for a second level, comprised of a ring of walkways encircled by a low railing, where one could look down into the taproom.
Nearly every piece of furniture, railing, pillar, and section of wall had been carved in odd shapes, mixing the serpentine and the abstract. It gave the walls, fashioned of seemingly ordinary materials, a disconcertingly organic quality not evident on the outside. The inconsistent lighting added to that uncanny effect.
The many alcoves and nooks in the common room were dimly lit, casting much of the space in varying levels of shadow, giving guests at least the illusion of privacy. I’d only been here a handful of times in the past year, and didn’t know that the Backroad had anything like regulars.
The current stock of patrons seemed typical enough. Shadowy shapes clustered around tables or peered from the deeper shadows of nooks and alcoves. Faces shrouded by hoods, helms, scarves, or hats of myriad design huddled over drinks or games of dice, muttering to one another in a dozen tongues, not all of them sounding like they came from human lips.
The flames in the fire pit danced strangely as I approached the bar, flickering tongues licking out to almost catch at the hem of my cloak like curious feelers. I lifted one hand toward the flames so the being within could take my scent. If the tips of my fingers were mildly singed, then it was still better than the risk of being rude.
Few of the patrons showed their face, some unspoken tradition of the place, and for that same reason I kept my hood up. I ignored the eyes on me as I approached the bar and leaned the rope-wrapped bundle concealing my axe against it.